The Mud On His Italian, Leather Boots
by swishandflickwit
Summary: . . . And How It Brought Him To Hermione Granger. After all, he woke today, feeling very refreshed, with an odd feeling in his chest that something remarkable could happen then. . .


**A/N: A little, mindless piece of fluff awaits!**

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><p><strong>The Mud On His Italian, Leather Boots And How It Brought Him To Hermione Granger<strong>

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><p>It was one of <em>those <em>days. . .

Of the 365 days of the year, 200 of those days were consisted of rain. Dark – clouded, wind – induced, grey – covered – sky – type, heavy – downpour, rain.

Today just happened to be one of them.

Now, in Draco's defense, it hadn't really started out like that.

He woke today, feeling very refreshed, with an odd feeling in his chest that something remarkable could happen then. He got out of bed, took a nice, long, hot shower and got ready to dress for the day.

As he walked into his very large, walk – in closet and went about picking his finest clothes to match his oh–so–very fine mood, he noticed a package lying on the sofa in the middle of his room – sized closet.

With a smirk on his face, he approached it with a slight spring in his step, excitedly anticipating the contents of said package. A delighted smile worked his way to his lips as he was correct in his guess as to what it could hold.

When he opened it, the most delicious smell of new leather reached his nose and he took a great, big whiff of it (eyes closed, nose raised and everything) before opening his eyes.

Oh how they twinkled!

Lo and behold for in his hands, Draco Malfoy held his very new, very shiny, oh–so–very expensive, brown, buckled, _Italian, leather, boots._

If he weren't so dignified and not to mention, a _Malfoy_, he would've hugged them to his chest, twirled and jumped about the room like the little princess he really was but no, instead, with a smug smirk he carefully wore them upon his feet, stood and walked to the mirror, a little more swagger to his step (who knew it was still even _possible_) and stood to his full height.

His smirk grew.

"You're just too bloody handsome for your own good, Malfoy."

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><p>Lucky for him though, it began raining as he had a spot of breakfast in his huge dining table, reading a letter from his wonderful Mother who was vacationing in Italy, hence the boots. He laughed heartily at the many escapades his mother was having and decided to write her back when he usually wouldn't bother.<p>

Even the rain couldn't dampen his glorious mood.

After replying to his mother, he did some paper work for Malfoy Enterprises, checking financial status here (to which he smirked), reading on department progress there, getting the urge to fire people some and checking financial status _again_ (for the hell of it).

It was noon when he realized he was cooped up in his study for nearly four hours and decided to eat lunch outside in Diagon Alley. Abnormally (teetering on creepy) happy mood still in tact.

As he made his way to his foyer did he wonder where this sudden mood came from when normally he'd be in a sour mood (his mind briefly shifting to that feeling he got when he woke up, that something remarkable would happen that day) that he decided that hell, it was rare, might as well go with it.

And with a '_pop_' he disapparated.

When he landed, though, it became a whole different story.

The mood which he was just seconds ago, contemplating upon, evaporated quickly for there, glistening tauntingly upon his magnificent Italian, leather boot, was _mud_.

He would've screamed if he weren't such a dignified Malfoy.

Instead – and because he was a wizard, see – he brought out his wand and forcefully shouted at his boot, "_Scourgify!_"

Nothing happened.

"_Scourgify!_"

It hardly moved.

Losing his temper now, he tried one last time, in deadly low tones like he was threatening the mud, "_Scourgify_."

The mud challenged him back by _not moving an inch_.

And in that moment, Draco Malfoy let out a string of profanities that would make even the crudest sailor flinch.

A mother walking nearby glared at him as she covered her son's ears. He glared back just as viciously.

He stomped the streets of Diagon Alley, happy mood completely vanished, seeing absolutely red, appalled at the fact that a simple mud would not go away from his very new, very shiny, oh–so–very expensive, brown, buckled, _Italian, leather, boots._

This is how we find Draco in the aftermath of the downpour.

So vehement was he in stomping about Diagon Alley and staring pointedly at the mud on his precious boot (as if his glare could magically melt it off) that he did not notice a certain bushy-haired witch weaving hurriedly through the throngs of busy shoppers until it was too late.

And like an insect to a car window, they collided.

Now, if this were some totally, lovesick, cliché story, this next scene would go a little something like this:

Instinctively, Draco's arms found their way onto Hermione Granger's waist to steady her while her dainty hands found their way to his shoulders.

They stared deeply into each other's eyes as if they were long, lost lovers (cause they were). Draco tightened his hold on her, afraid that if he let go she'd disappear, and dipped his head as he brushed his lips to hers.

Hermione melted into his embrace and molded to his body like putty and let herself pull him closer, not sparing an inch of space between them and deepened the kiss with Draco, responding just as fiercely.

In that moment, the noise faded into the background and they were not aware of anything else but each other. Fireworks exploded behind their eyelids and somewhere, music began to play. When they pulled apart and leaned onto each other, in their eyes, the world was finally right.

Muddy, Italian, Leather boots and all. . .

Well, thank _Merlin_ this isn't one of them then!

The scene went something like this:

When their shoulders touched, Malfoy raised his eyes and was about to give someone a very, bad telling–off (and maybe even a hex, for the hell of it), expecting to come face-to-face with a little, ol' nobody. Instead, his eyes met warm, familiar, brown ones and for a moment, they both stared in shock.

Incredulously, he said, "Granger?" for it had been almost two years since he last saw her.

Hermione, on her part, was equally shocked but composed herself faster when she noticed something that gave her a little idea.

"Malfoy."

They stared for a little bit more more.

Then something of a twinkle appeared in Hermione's eyes that did not go unnoticed by Malfoy.

It was akin to that of Dumbledore's I-know-something-you-don't twinkle but hers was a little more twisted and said, I–know–something–that–will–knock–your–socks–off.

And when something like what felt like a minute passed, he promptly replied with an eyebrow raise that said, Are–my–socks–off–yet?

Hermione shook her head a little and then. . . _then _she smirked (A, prepared–to–get–your–socks–knocked–off smirk), took a small step forward, whispered something in his ear and gave him a lingering kiss on his cheek.

When she murmured against his ear, "There's mud on your boot." Draco Malfoy was still very aware of the throngs of shoppers passing by him. And no, when her lips made contact with his skin there were no fireworks and there was certainly not any music.

He was still very aware of his surroundings and very, very, _very_, aware of the mud on his boots.

Yet for the life of him, he could not fathom why it was that he could not move when she pressed her body against his.

Hermione stepped away, gave him one last smirk and said, "See you around, Malfoy." Before turning on her heel and disappearing into the crowd.

Malfoy tentatively placed a hand on the spot where Hermione's lips were and smiled, happy mood slowly returning. He could still feel her lips, making his cheek tingle in a most remarkable manner!

He turned to the direction she took off, wondering at such an encounter and walked there, thinking maybe she had other more remarkable tricks up her sleeve.

But just as suddenly as he took a step, a downpour of rain splattered against the pavements of Diagon Alley and onto Draco Malfoy's everything – His hair, to his (very fine and oh–so–_very _expensive) cloak to his – that's right, you guessed it – _Italian, leather boots._

"BLOODY FUCK!"

Ah. . . It was just one of those days.

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><p><strong>AN: I find myself craving for reviews and this came up. It was posted before under my previous Pen Name but I took it down and deleted it. **

**Is anyone up for a sequel? Because I have a concept for the next one... I know, shocking, it's _years _in the making but, I might just be persuaded given the amount of reviews...**


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